Broken Oath
by Narilsa
Summary: Sorceresses expect a modicum of proper conduct from their Knights. For those who do not get it, the system compensates with built-in penalties for those who step out of line.


broken oath

When he first swears fealty to her, she can already see that there is the potential for danger within him. He is young, brash: star-eyed at the thought that he might be chosen to be Knight to the Sorceress-Empress of Centra, and eager for position and power. He is eager for the chance to prove himself, to sate the petty impossible desire for universal admiration.  
  
She keeps her thoughts to herself, however, as he kneels to her in a sweep of fine silk and swears his loyalty to her in the confident tones of a young man whose voice is still edged with the rough boyishness of youth. He may be young and brash, but he is the finest young warrior that Centra has to offer her.  
  
_I annoint you a Knight after Samael to the Lady Sorceress Hyne's Daughter._  
  
The Bonding itself does not feel like a _Bonding_ so much as a simple, casual trade: sorceress shard to one, fragment of soul to the other. It is because there is no _feeling_ behind the exchange that it feels dead, lethargic-- like the lazy inversion of cold and warm air pockets, which slip indolently into each other's places not because they wish to, but because higher laws impel them to. She receives the shard of his soul and feels the sudden rush of his being spread through her like molten gold, and it makes her feel confident, arrogant: as if she could take on anything life chose to throw at her.  
  
She watches him receive the anchor of power she extends to him, and immediately the invisible cable between them draws taut, singing harmonic notes of excitement wherever his trembling thoughts land: tentative fingertips on cello strings, coaxing music from silence. She can see the excitement reflected in his eyes, in his aura, in his stance.  
  
She watches him as he trains zealously to accustom himself to the new power that has been afforded him as a Knight. She has placed few restrictions on how much he can draw on her power. His already fine coordination has been honed to a point beyond the easy grace of a cat, and his quick strength has been enhanced to supernatural levels. But she knows he has become intoxicated with the power and the respect it affords him when he begins flaunting it unnecessarily.   
  
He begins eventually to use mental force to telekinetically manipulate everything, when it would have been just as simple to move them by mundane means; it is as if he is indicating that he is above mere physical contact. Instead of getting up to find something he needs, he will simply conjure it into being. He unnerves the servants by making a habit of telepathically speaking to them and issuing orders when they are on the opposite side of the castle from him, making it clear to them that he can see what they are doing even if he is not physically present; he irritates his Sorceress herself by reaching along their bond to sense her emotions and remark on them at the most inopportune of times.  
  
The irritation she feels at his arrogance reaches a peak when he begins drawing on her power continuously without discretion and without permission for trivial matters. Whatever patience she might have had with him evaporates when he begins using it for such sacriligeous things as lighting his own eyes with the white-hot glow of sorcerous energy to intimidate others. The blazing white of an aroused Sorceress's eyes is hailed and revered throughout the world as one of the hallmarks of the Sorceress's divine descent. For her Knight to be using-- without her permission, no less-- the power that she shares openly with him to do such disrespectful things as count himself among the divine is maddening.   
  
And yet she does nothing. She has no reason to fear that he may take her life, and despite his arrogance he is a _very_ capable guard.  
  
She watches him closely as his heart begins to turn from her, consumed by his new power and longing for more. She knows that he is aware of the legend. It has been said that if a Sorceress is annihilated in an instant while her Knight is drawing actively on the power within her, the power sometimes lashes outward from the Sorceress and enters the Knight himself; something like the effect created when two people pull on a rubber band, and one lets go.  
  
In rare cases, the Knight is both physically and mentally strong, and compatible with the Sorceress power. In this, the rarest of occurrences, the Knight will take over the power of the Sorceress who was killed too quickly to have a conscious choice of who to pass her power to. In almost all other cases, the Knight is incapable of carrying the power because of genetics: the allele on the Y chromosome that determines incompatibility with it is switched on. In that case, the Knight himself is incinerated by the force of the power that backlashes through him, and the Sorceress power will seek out the closest person capable of embodying that power.  
  
She knows the legend is true. It has happened only twice before, ever since the first Sorceress was made. She also knows that the reason it happens so infrequently is because few things in the world have the power to completely obliterate a Sorceress in a fraction of the space of a heartbeat.  
  
That last thing is something that _he_ does not know.  
  
She has asked him to accompany her to the annual ball she holds in the castle. The opening ceremony involves her processing from the great doors of the throne room straight to her throne itself, and she wants him to be by her side.  
  
She watches him keenly as he prepares for the event, telepathically ordering the servants about and telekinetically multitasking. A cloak fastens itself about his neck seemingly of its own volition: a brush flies through the air to run itself through his hair. It is a ridiculous waste of energy, a tasteless flaunting of power. It seems that every day now she can feel him straining at the end of their bond like a dog at the end of its leash, continuously pulling power from her unresisting reserves.  
  
He has recently been constantly pulling power surreptitiously, little by little, but he has not been using what he draws from her. She can feel her power gathering within him, sitting awkwardly in him instead of imbuing him as naturally as it imbues her. The power is not his; it is foreign to him. Except for that piece of power she willingly _gave_ to him to make the Bond, it will never soak into him until it is as much a part of him as his blood; not the way it does with her.  
  
She knows that he has been storing this power, waiting for a grand event like this. A grand event where he can unleash all that power upon her, turning her own magic against herself and striving to realize that legend. If he is successful and the power darts from her dead body to his living one, he will stand triumphant before the masses, replete with stolen power and awaiting with open arms the adulations of the flock. If he is unsuccessful... it will certainly be a dramatic way for him to die.  
  
She can feel that it will soon be over, as they stand together-- Sorceress and Knight-- outside the double doors that open to admit them. They will walk in together through those doors and down the path cleared for them between the massed people, and one of them will walk out alone this night.  
  
It is when they are halfway there that he pauses in his stride, and half-turns to face her, an indefinable expression playing over his face. The closest definition she can find for the look on his face is that it is the look of a little brother, bursting to tell his sister something but afraid it is something she will not like.  
  
She can taste his fearful excitement; it is like the ozone of clashed swords and lightning, and the copper of trickling blood.  
  
He is probably unaware of the fact that she can feel everything that he is doing with her power, even though it rests within his body. She closes her eyes-- in fear, he thinks, but in reality to better track the flux of her magic-- as he unravels that coiled power within him, flipping the release on all that compressed energy, to let it lash back towards her. Her power comes leaping home in a single bolting strike.  
  
It is quite possible to kill a Sorceress with her own power. Knights who find themselves charged with the dispatching of their renegade Sorceress know this all too well. However, Knights still sworn into the service of a sane Sorceress are forever incapable of using a Sorceress's power to kill her unless she goes mad.  
  
In his arrogance, he thought he could circumvent the rule that a Knight who raises his hand against his Sorceress is swiftly and harshly punished.  
  
She did not bother to open her eyes until she could feel it was over. As soon as she perceives that the deed is done, she lets her lids flutter open with a small sigh. Stepping delicately over his body, she processes alone up to her throne-- silk train sliding carelessly over his face-- and seats herself. Only then does she favor him with a glance, though she already knows what she will see.  
  
There is no sign of violent death, though the cause of his demise was the violent reaction of the shard of Sorceress-power that imbued him. He lies as if asleep, while the gathered masses stare and whisper among themselves.  
  
She raises a hand, and silence falls like fearful prayers across the room.  
  
"Please remove that from the floor," she says softly, and those standing closest to her will swear that they heard sad laughter in her voice. "One can hardly hold a ball with a corpse lying in one's entrance hall."  
  
_After all, it's most impolite of the hostess._


End file.
